Conan the Victorious

by Robert Jordan

  His ears strained for sounds below normal hearing, and his eyes sought the shadows between the other tents. The sounds were all about him now that he listened. The rasp of leather on leather, the soft clink of metal, the pad of softly placed feet. Shadows shifted where they should be still.

  “Hordo!” Conan roared, broadsword coming into his hand. “Up, or die in your blankets!” Before the warning was past his lips, smugglers were rolling to their feet with swords in hand. And Vendhyans as well, afoot and mounted, were upon them.

  To attempt to make his way to his companions was madness, the Cimmerian knew. They did not fight to hold a piece of ground but to escape, and every man would be seeking to break through the ring of steel. He had no time for thought on the matter. He had killed one man and was crossing swords with a second by the time he shouted the last word.

  Jerking his blade free of the second corpse, he all but decapitated another Vendhyan, searching all the while for his path to freedom, ignoring the screams and clanging steel around him as he fought his way away from the Khitan’s tent. A turban-helmed horseman appeared in front of him, lance gone but tulwar lifted to slash. The Vendhyan’s fierce, killing grin turned to shock as Conan leaped to grapple with him. Unable to use his sword so close, the horseman beat at Conan with the hilt as the horse danced in circles. The big Cimmerian could not use his broadsword either, merely wrapping that arm about the Vendhyan, but his dagger quickly slid between the metal plates of the brigantine hauberk. The horseman screamed, and again as he was toppled from the saddle. Then Conan was scrambling into the other’s place, seizing the reins and slamming his heels into the horse’s flanks.

  The calvary-trained animal burst into a gallop, and Conan, lying low in the saddle, guided it between the tents. Merchants and their servants, roused by the tumult, jumped shouting from the path of the speeding rider. Suddenly there was a man who did not leap aside, a caravan guard who dropped to one knee and planted the base of his spear. The horse shrieked as the long blade thrust into its chest, and abruptly Conan was flying over the crumpling animal’s head. All of the breath was driven from him by the fall, yet the Cimmerian struggled to rise. The guard rushed in for an easy kill of the man on his knees, tulwar raised high. With what seemed his last particle of strength, Conan drove his sword into the other’s chest. The force of the man’s charge carried him into the big Cimmerian, knocking him over. Still fighting for breath, Conan pushed the man away, extricated his blade, and staggered into the shadows. Half-falling, he pressed his back against a tent.

  Wakened merchants shouted on all sides.

  “What happens?”

  “Are we attacked?”

  “Bandits!”

  “My goods!”

  Vendhyan soldiers shoved the merchants aside, beating at them with the butts of their lances. “Go back to your tents!” was their cry. “We seek spies! Go back to your tents, and you will not be harmed! Anyone outside will be arrested!”

  Spies, Conan thought. He had found his fight, but there was yet a trickle of his previous anger remaining, a trickle growing stronger. Moments before, escape from the encampment had been paramount in his mind. Now he thought he would first visit the man who considered all foreigners spies.

  Like a hunting leopard, the big Cimmerian flowed from shadow to shadow, blending with the dark. Curious eyes were easily avoided, for there were few abroad now. No one moved between the tents save soldiers, announcing their coming with creak of harness and clink of armor and curses that they must search when they would be sleeping. Silently Conan moved into deeper shadows as the Vendhyans appeared, watching with a feral grin as they marched or rode past him, sometimes within arm’s reach, yet always unseeing.

  Karim Singh’s tent glowed with light within, and two fires blazed high before the canopied entrance. The fires made the dim light filtered through golden silk at the rear seem almost as dark as the surrounding light. A score of Vendhyan cavalry sat their horses like statues in a ring about the tent, facing outward, ten paces at least separating each man from the next.

  Like statues they were in truth, or else thought they guarded against attack by an army, for on his belly Conan crawled unseen between two at the rear of the tent. As he prepared to slit an entrance in the back wall of the tent with his dagger, voices from inside stopped him.

  “Leave us,” commanded Karim Singh.

  Conan opened a small slit only, parting it with his fingers. A last Vendhyan soldier was bowing himself from the silk-walled chamber within. Karim Singh stood in the middle of the chamber, a cavalryman’s sword in his hand, and before him knelt a Vendhyan bound hand and foot. The kneeling man wore the robes of a merchant, though they hardly seemed consistent with his hard face and the long scar that crossed his nose and cheek.

  “You are called Sabah?” the wazam asked in an easy tone.

  “I am Amaur, Excellency, an honest merchant,” the kneeling man said, “and even you have no right to simply seize my goods without cause.” The harsh, rasping voice made Conan stiffen in memory. The rider in the dunes. He would listen for a while before killing Karim Singh.

  The wazam set the point of his sword against the other’s throat. “You are called Sabah?”

  “My name is Amaur, Excellency. I know no one called—” The kneeling man gasped as the point pressed closer, bringing a trickle of blood.

  “An honest merchant?” Karim Singh laughed softly. As he spoke, he increased the pressure of the blade. The kneeling man leaned back but the sword point followed. “Within the bales of silk you carry were found chests sealed with lead. You are a smuggler, at least. Who are the chests destined for?”

  With a cry, the prisoner toppled. From his back he stared with bulging eyes. The sword still was at his throat and there was no farther he could go to escape it. The hardness of his face had become a mask of fear. “I…I cannot say, Excellency. Before Asura, I swear it!”

  “You will say or you will face Asura shortly. Or, more likely, Katar.” The wazam’s voice became conspiratorial. “I know the name, Amaur. I know. But I must hear it from your lips if you would live. Speak, Amaur, and live.”

  “Excellency, he…he will kill me. Or worse!”

  “I will kill you, Amaur. This sword is at your throat, here, and he is far away. Speak!”

  “N…Naipal!” the man sobbed. “Naipal, Excellency!”

  “Good,” Karim Singh said soothingly. But he did not move the sword. “You see how easy it was. Now. Why? Tell me why he wants these chests.”

  “I cannot, Excellency.” Tears rolled down Amaur’s cheeks now and he shook with weeping. “Before Asura, before Katar, I would tell you if I could, but I know nothing! We were to meet the ship, kill all on board and bring the chests to Ayodhya. Perhaps Sabah knew more, but he is dead. I swear, Excellency! I speak truly, I swear!”

  “I believe you,” Karim Singh sighed. “It is a pity.” And he leaned on the sword.

  Amaur’s attempt to scream became a bubbling gurgle as steel slid through his throat. Karim Singh stared at him as though fascinated by the blood welling up in his mouth and the convulsions that wracked his bound form. Abruptly the wazam released the sword. It remained upright, its point thrust through man and carpets into the ground, shaking with Amaur’s final twitching.

  “Guards!” Karim Singh called, and Conan lowered the dagger with which he had been about to lengthen the slit. “Guards!”

  Half a score of Vendhyans rushed into the chamber with drawn blades. Staring at the sight that greeted them, they hastily sheathed their weapons.

  “The other spies,” the wazam said. “The giant, in particular. He has been taken? He cannot be mistaken, for his size and his eyes set him apart.”

  “No, Excellency,” one of the soldiers replied deferentially. “Four of that party are dead, but not the giant. We seek the others.”

  “So he is still out there.” Karim Singh spoke as though to himself. “He seemed a stark man. A slayer born. He will seek me now.” He shook himsel
f and glared at the soldiers as if angered that they had overheard. “He must be found! A thousand pieces of gold to the man who finds him. All of you, and ten others, will remain with me until he is dead or in chains. And he who does not die stopping the barbarian from reaching me will die wishing that he had. Have someone dispose of this,” he added with a nod toward Amaur’s corpse.

  The wazam strode from the chamber then, the guards clustering about him, and Conan sagged where he crouched outside. Against a score of guards he might not even reach Karim Singh before he was cut down. He had known men who embraced a brave but useless death; he was not one of them. Death was an old acquaintance to him and had been long before he found himself with Patil’s poison in his blood. Death was neither to be feared nor sought, and when he met it, the meeting would not be without purpose. Besides, he now had a name, Naipal, the man who had begun all of this. That was another who must die as well as Karim Singh.

  Silently Conan slipped back into the night.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A horse and a water bag were what he needed now, Conan knew. In this land a man afoot and without water was a man dying or dead. There were far more camels than horses in the caravan, however, and many of the horses were animals suitable for show but not for a man who needed to travel far and fast. Moreover, word of the reward must have been spreading quickly, for the soldiers were now more assiduous in their searching. Twice he located suitable mounts only to be forced to abandon them by turban-helmed patrols.

  Finally he found himself in the nobles’ portion of the encampment. Most of the tents were dark and the silence was as complete as in the merchants’ part. He wondered if the soldiers had been as brusque here in quieting curiosity as they had been with the merchants.

  Something moved in the darkness, a shadow heaving, and he froze. A grunt came from the shadow, and the rattle of a chain. Conan peered more closely and then stifled a laugh. It was Vyndra’s dancing bear. On sudden impulse, he drew his dagger. The bear, sitting in a sprawl, eyed him as he cautiously approached. It did not move as he sawed at the leather collar about its neck.

  “It is a harsh land,” he whispered, “with many ways to die.” He felt foolish in talking to an animal, but there was a need, too. “You may find hunters or stronger bears. If you do not run far enough, they will chain you again and make you dance for Vyndra. The choice is yours, to die free or to dance for your mistress.”

  The bear stared at him as the collar fell loose, and he held the dagger ready. Just because it had not attacked him so far did not mean it would not, and the shaggy creature was half again as large as he. Slowly the bear got to its feet and lumbered into the dark.

  “Better to die free,” Conan grinned after the beast.

  “And I say I saw something move.”

  Conan stiffened at the words, cursing his impulses.

  “Take ten men around the other way and we will see.”

  In an instant the Cimmerian’s blade made a long slit in the tent wall behind him, and he went through as footsteps rounded the tent. Within was as deep a darkness as outside, though his keen eyes, already used to the night, could make out shadowy shapes and mounds on the carpet spread for flooring. The footsteps halted on the other side of the thin wall, and voices muttered indistinguishably. One of the mounds moved.

  Not again, Conan thought. Hoping it was not another bear, he threw himself on the shifting shape. The grunt that came when he landed was nothing at all like that of a bear. Soft flesh writhed against him beneath a thin linen coverlet, and his hand frantically sought a mouth, finding it just in time to stifle a scream. Bringing his face close, he looked into big dark eyes filled with a mixture of fear and rage.

  “Alyna is not here now, Vyndra,” he whispered and moved his hand from her lips.

  As her mouth opened once more for a scream, he stuffed it with the ball of her hair that he had gathered with his other hand. Quickly he felt around the bed mat until he found a long silk scarf, which he tied across her mouth to keep her from spitting the hair out. Bound and gagged, he thought, she could raise no alarm until he was far away. With luck, she would not be found until morning.

  Stripping off the linen coverlet, he was forced to stop and stare. Even when covered in shadows, the lush curves of her were enough to take his breath away. He found it quickly, though, jerking his head back barely in time to save his eyes from clawing nails.

  “This time the sport is not of your choosing,” he said softly, catching her flailing arm and deftly flipping her onto her stomach. He found another scarf and used it to bind her wrists behind her. “You may not dance for me,” he chuckled, “but this is almost as enjoyable.” He felt her quiver and did not need the angry, muffled sounds coming from behind the gag to tell him it was with rage.

  As he searched for something to tie her ankles with, he became aware of voices in the front of the tent. Hastily he dragged his struggling prisoner closer to where he could listen.

  “Why do you wish to see my mistress?” came Alyna’s voice. “She sleeps.”

  A man answered with weary patience. “The wazam has learned that your mistress entertained a spy earlier tonight. He would talk with her of it.”

  “Can it not wait until morning? She will be angry if she is wakened.”

  Conan did not wait to learn the outcome. If Vyndra was found now, the soldiers would know he was close by before her gag was fully out of her mouth. Half-carrying the wriggling woman, he darted to the rear of the tent and peered cautiously through the slit by which he had entered. The searchers were gone. It was possible they were even the same men now in the front of the tent.

  “I am sorry,” he told her.

  He was glad for the gag as he pulled her through the slit. The violent protesting noises she made were bad enough as it was. Despite her struggles, he lifted her into his arms, running as fast as he could manage while making sure he did not speed into the midst of a patrol or trip over tent ropes.

  Well away from her tent, he put her on her feet, careful to keep a grip on one slender arm. If they were discovered, he had to be able to fight without being burdened with her. And there would be no need to prevent her escape then.

  Finding a horse was still his first concern, but when he tried to start out again, he found he was dragging a bent-over, crouching woman who seemed to be attempting to make herself as small as possible while simultaneously refusing to move her feet.

  “Stand up and walk,” he said hoarsely, but she shook her head furiously. “Crom, woman, I’ve no time to ogle your charms.” She shook her head again.

  A quick look around revealed no evidence of anyone both near and awake. All of the surrounding tents were dark. His full-armed swing landing on her buttock produced a louder smack than he would have liked, not to mention the sounds she produced, but it brought her onto her toes and half-erect. When she tried to crouch again, he held his open hand in front of her face.

  “Walk,” he whispered warningly.

  Her glare was enough to slay lions, but slowly she straightened. Without so much as a glance at the beauties she had revealed, he hurried her on. He was not young enough to be a complete fool over a woman.

  Ghosting among the tents, they more than once barely avoided the searching Vendhyan soldiers. At first Conan was surprised that Vyndra made no effort to escape when the turban-helmed warriors were close, nor even to attract them with noise or struggle. In fact, she had become as silent as he, eyes constantly searching for what might trip or betray. Then it came to him. Escaping him was one thing, being rescued while garbed in naught but two scarves quite another. He smiled gratefully, accepting anything that made his own escape easier.

  Once more he was in the merchants’ area, so deathly still that he knew all there were huddled breathlessly, not daring to make a sound that would attract the soldiers. A destination had come to his mind, a place where there might be horses and a place the soldiers would not be searching if he had but a particle of luck.

  Movement in th
e shadows ahead again sent him to hiding, dragging a compliant Vyndra behind. This was no patrol, he saw quickly, but a lone man padding furtively. Slowly the shadow resolved into Kang Hou, half-crouched with his hands in his sleeves. As Conan opened his mouth, two more shapes appeared behind the first. Vendhyan cavalrymen, afoot and carrying their lances like spears.

  “Searching for something, Khitan?” one called.

  Smoothly Kang Hou pivoted, hands flickering out of concealment. Something flew through the air, and the two Vendhyans dropped soundlessly. Hastily the merchant ran to crouch above the bodies.

  “You are a dangerous man for a merchant,” Conan said softly as he stepped into the open.

  Kang Hou spun, a throwing knife in each upraised hand, then slowly slid the knives from sight within his sleeves. “A merchant must often travel in dangerous company,” he said blandly. He ran his eyes over Vyndra and raised an eyebrow. “I have heard it said that some warriors favor women above all other loot, but under these circumstances, I find it strange.”

  “I do not want her,” Conan said. Vyndra growled through her gag. “The problem is, where can I leave her and be sure she’ll not be found before I have gotten a horse and left this place?”

  “A quandary,” the Khitan agreed. “You have considered where to find this horse? The soldiers check the picket lines constantly and a missing animal will not go long undiscovered.”

  “At the last place they will look for one of us,” Conan replied. “The picket line behind your tent.”

  Kang Hou smiled. “Admirable reasoning. Having led my original pursuers a way from the encampment, I am now returning there. Will you accompany me?”

  “In but a moment. Hold her.”

  Thrusting Vyndra at the startled Khitan, Conan hurried to the dead Vendhyans. Quickly he dragged them into the deeper darkness beside a tent—no sense in leaving them to be easily found—and when he returned to the others, he carried one of the soldiers’ cloaks. Kang Hou wore a small smile, and Vyndra’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut.